The Aisha Prophecy (37 page)

“Friend of Whistler’s?” asked Haskell. “Somehow I don’t think so. He looks like he buys all his clothes in Ohio.”

“Well, he knows Harry’s here. Let’s see if he goes in.”

He didn’t. He got to the service alley where he raised his mini camera again and aimed it at Stride’s Subaru. His lips again moving. Now Haskell understood. This man was narrating as well.

He leaned forward for a close-up of the Subaru’s plate. As he did so, the back of his jacket pulled tight.

“Got a gun,” said Gilhooley. “See? Small of his back.”

“An automatic pistol. I saw it.”

“Bounty hunter, maybe?” asked Gilhooley.

“After who, though? Stride?”

“There’s a bounty on Stride?”

Haskell caught himself. He shook his head. “I meant to say on Stride’s Muslim girls.”

“Whoever,” said Gilhooley, “The thing is, he’s alone. He’d have to be crazy to try anything tonight. No chance that he’d get out of that restaurant alive. My guess? He’s here scouting for somebody else. That would explain why he’s taping.”

As they watched, the man had turned his camera around and now he was taping himself. He looked into the lens, grinning, for a good twenty seconds, adding more commentary as he did so. It was the sort of corny thing a tourist might do in order to involve himself in the scene. For whose benefit, though? The Saudis? Very likely. They’ve long since been hunting their princess.

They watched as he started to move down the alley, pausing only to spit on Stride’s car. That seemed proof. They watched as he neared the side service door. There he paused, his camera still at the ready. He opened the door. He peeked inside. His camera came up to eye level. At this, the sounds of the party spilled out. Someone singing off-key, but unabashedly so. A man’s voice. Vaguely German. Must be Kessler. He was trying to get through the song, “Sixteen Candles” amid much hooting and laughing.

The Greek, if that’s what he was, did not reach for his weapon. Nor did he even check to make sure it was free. From the look of it, all that he wanted to achieve was to get a little footage of the party. If so, he never got much past the door. A white coated woman, clearly one of the cooks, had taken the uninvited guest by the arm and was leading him back into the alley. Politely, but firmly, she was pointing the way toward the main entrance out on the street. He seemed apologetic, clasping his hands. She closed the door. He shook a fist at it.

The Greek stood for a minute as if deciding whether or not to go in the front door. In the meantime, he decided to vent his frustration by kicking at the front of Stride’s car. They could hear the crunch of his heel against its grill, followed by a second and more tinkly crunch. He’d taken out one of her headlights.

“Must be too many green Subarus,” said Haskell dryly.

“No, he’s just pissed off.”

“Yes, I got that,” said Haskell.

“Look at this, though. The Greek’s going to tape it.”

The Greek had backed away from the car. He aimed his camera at the damage he’d caused. His smile indicated satisfaction. He slipped the camera into his pocket and with lightened pace, emerged from the alley and turned right toward the entrance. He was going inside after all.

As he entered, the man from the bakery came out and was once again idling in front. Haskell noticed that he’d cleaned off the front of his jacket. It occurred to Haskell that he looked very much like the man who’d arrived with Whistler and Kessler. Couldn’t be, however, unless they were… twins? Oh, get with it, Charles. The brass ring’s inside. He said to Gilhooley, “It’s show time. Get in there.”

“What for? You heard the singing. They’re all in the back.”

“So is Stride. Have you forgotten?”

“No, I have not, but you don’t need me to signal. You can zoom from here and see the whole front. Make your call; she walks up; you press the button.”

“Alas,” said Haskell, “There are several new wrinkles. You saw what your Greek friend did to that car. One assumes that he harbors ill-feelings toward Stride. You’ll be there to see that they’re not acted upon.”

“Mr. Haskell… bullshit. I quit.”

“You saw that he was taping the damage he did. You and I are nicely framed in the background. Not good.”

Gilhooley fell silent. No denying it.

“Therefore we want the camera that moron was using. Aside from the fact that our faces are in it, I want to see what-all else is in it and I want to hear what he’s been saying. You’ll relieve him of it in the confusion.”

“You’re saying after the blast.”

“He’ll be easier to handle.”

“I still quit,” said Gilhooley. “This is just too damned nuts.”

“Worth a bonus.”

“How big?”

“Twenty thousand,” said Haskell. “But only if you also get that video camera. I want the only record of this thing to be mine and I will decide who gets a viewing.”

“Twenty thousand is chump change to you, Mr. Haskell.”

“Okay, name it.”

“Fifty. And no more crap assignments.”

“Done. Scouts’ honor. Get in there.”

THIRTY EIGHT 

Haskell watched through the zoom lens of the video camera as Gilhooley entered the bar. His reappearance got the immediate attention of the bartender working that end. Now he’s questioning Gilhooley. Asking, very likely, where he’d gone off to. A casual inquiry? Nope. Not at all. They’ve definitely had their eye on him.

So had the Greek, now not five feet away. The Greek reached up and snatched that cap off his head. He turned away and shrank down as if avoiding being seen. He must also be suspicious of Gilhooley.

Haskell took the trigger phone out of the bag and rested it on his thigh. He took his own cell phone and punched out the bar number, all the while aiming his camera. The bartender picked up. Haskell repeated what he’d rehearsed. He attempted a Mideastern accent. The bartender seemed either doubtful or reluctant. He began asking questions. Haskell feigned desperation. “Please. There’s no time. Life or death.”

And it worked. The bartender set the phone down on the bar and turned to walk back toward the rear. Haskell was expecting a thumbs-up from Gilhooley, but Gilhooley seemed troubled. He raised a hand while mouthing “Wait.”

Now Haskell saw the woman bartender bearing a tray of what looked like champagne flutes. She was passing them out to all at the bar while making some sort of announcement. He heard what sounded like “These are on Harry.” Those who’d taken the flutes were moving back toward the rear. As their bearer moved forward, he could hear her more clearly. She was saying, “We’re all going to sing.”

What would Stride do? Let him wait while they sang? And that’s what they were doing. They were singing Happy Birthday. Haskell swung the zoom lens back on Gilhooley who was standing, looking back there, still signaling “Wait.” But then, a thumbs-up, a vigorous nod. Haskell saw her now. She was coming after all. She was shouldering her way through the crowd, her face showing both annoyance and concern. Gilhooley could no longer be seen. He had dropped beneath the bar’s overhang.

Off to Haskell’s left, another bus was approaching. Within seconds it would be blocking his view. Now or never, thought Haskell. He wouldn’t wait to hear her voice. He put down his cell and picked up the other. Still taping, he hit the Send button.

The blast stunned Haskell even though he had braced for it. A loud “Whomp” from the alley. A ball of red flame. A cloud of gray smoke rushing toward him. Sounds of creaking and collapsing like a dozen trees falling. Window glass peppering the Mercedes and the limo and spraying all over the street. The shock wave tried to lift Haskell’s bus shelter as if it were a sail in a storm. It slapped his newspaper into his face, but he managed to keep the camera going. He felt a sting on the top of his head. He touched it. He was bleeding. He kept taping.

The billowing flame rose upward and outward. It rolled over the Subaru, engulfing it fully. Haskell heard a loud clang against the pavement very near him. He turned the camera toward it, not knowing what it was. His first thought was that it might be the Subaru’s hood, but its shape was or had been rectangular. It must be the lid of that trash bin.

More cracking and snapping, more ripping and tearing. It was, he thought, how a farm house must sound while being ripped apart by a tornado. He’d heard human voices, first as yelps of surprise, but now they’d risen into a chorus of screams. Hysteria. Panic. All recorded. Great stuff.

He couldn’t see a thing in the alley itself because of the flames and the smoke. He swung the camera to where he’d seen Stride coming forward. He couldn’t see her either. Nor anyone else. The entire interior was a cloud of white smoke. It poured out through the frames of the now glassless windows, curling out and up toward the sky.

He saw the first people staggering out. The white smoke was thinning. He could see more of them. Almost all of them blackened, most coughing and retching. Most helping others. Some out for themselves.

He saw people coming from other directions. From the liquor store, the gallery, the real estate office and everyone who worked in the bakery. Others came from the bus that had screeched to a stop the moment the Semtex went off. Some had rushed forward to help those coming out. Others held back, gaping, afraid to go near. Still others scattered to the left and the right, intent only on getting to their cars and away before there was another explosion. One man, and then a woman who had been on the bus stopped in the middle of the street to take pictures. The woman had a digital camera to her eye, snapping photos in rapid succession. The man had a video camera.

“Told you so,” said the voice in his head. “Everyone has a camcorder.”

Shut up. Not now. Where is Stride?

He still didn’t see her among those streaming out, many soaking wet from the sprinklers. But he now saw Gilhooley. There’s Gilhooley among them. He’d pulled his denim jacket over his head and one hand was covering his face. Injured? No. Doesn’t seem to be. He must have spotted those two taking pictures. Without looking up, he raised his right and waved it in Haskell’s direction. Haskell saw the small rectangular shape of what must be that Greek’s mini camera. A man, some man, was reaching for Gilhooley. Where did he come from? Not from inside. Must have come from one of the neighboring businesses. He seemed to be trying to guide him to the street. He seemed to be trying to help him.

Gilhooley is trying to squirm from his grasp. The man won’t have it. He’s determined to help. He’s gripped the collar of Gilhooley’s denim jacket, pulling it even further over his head in his effort to lead Gilhooley to safety. Gilhooley resisting. He slips out of the jacket. The mini camera, apparently, goes with it, stripped from the palm of his hand. Haskell couldn’t see it. Did it fall to the sidewalk? Gilhooley looking down, looking this way and that. Gilhooley doesn’t seem to see it either. The man, the Samaritan, stands holding his jacket, offering it back to Gilhooley.

Suddenly, the Greek appeared, staggering out. He seems to have been blinded by the smoke. One hand is pressed against the side of his face. He’s bleeding. Profusely. Blood oozing through his fingers. That’s probably, thought Haskell, where Gilhooley cold-cocked him, probably with the nearest beer bottle. The other hand comes up. It’s holding that pistol.

Gilhooley must have thought he was down for the count and chose not to take the time to relieve him of it. Now Gilhooley has cause to wish that he had. Gilhooley is backing away further. The Greek, reeling, does not see Gilhooley. He probably can’t see much of anything. Gilhooley breaks into a run, going straight up the street, headed, no doubt, for his truck. No, he isn’t. He’s running right past it. He’s leaving it.

The Samaritan waves his jacket. Must be asking, “Don’t you want this?”

Guess not.

Gilhooley keeps going.

“Very sensibly,” said Haskell’s inner voice.

The Samaritan turns toward the staggering Greek. Again he reaches out and… crack… he flies backward. Did the Greek just shoot him? Yes, he did. Did he mean to? He must have thought that the man was Gilhooley. The Greek is standing over him, trying to focus, amid shouts of “Look out. That man has a gun.” The Greek is now aware that the man’s not Gilhooley. Oblivious to the crowd that is scattering, shouting, and oblivious to the people who are now steaming out, he looks up and down in his search for Gilhooley. He concludes, apparently, that Gilhooley’s still inside. Or if not Gilhooley, whoever else he might be here for. He turns and plunges into the smoke.

Damn, thought Haskell. Where is that mini camera? Probably in the folds of Gilhooley’s denim jacket, still clutched by the man who got shot. Well, so much for Gilhooley’s fifty thousand dollar bonus which he’s not going to live to see anyway.

Ah. That will keep. Here comes Stride. Haskell zeroed in with his zoom lens. She was coming, he saw, from well back in the restaurant, not from where Gilhooley last saw her. She must have rushed back through that wave of white smoke and now she was coming back out again, unharmed, but dripping wet from the sprinklers.

Who was that with her? Two blackened survivors. Damn, thought Haskell. One of them is the princess. How the hell could she have survived? The other is the younger Iranian sister. Both of them soaked to the skin. Right behind came the older one, equally soaked, but otherwise not much worse for wear. She was helping a woman who was cradling her arm. Must be one of the Mangiamo regulars.

But no Aisha. Where was Aisha? Inside dead or dying? There’s no way that all four could have made it.

The bartender appeared before Stride reached the sidewalk. He’s steering people toward the front door. She sees him; she’s handing all three girls to him. She seems to be saying, “You take care of these while I go help the others.” She’s speaking with both hands over her ears. Her ear drums must have taken a beating. Didn’t slow her down, though. What a woman.

Haskell thought that he should have heard more shooting by now. If not by the Greek, then at him. Perhaps he’s hiding in there someplace, lying in wait. But for whom? Still Gilhooley? Not for the princess. She’s already out. For the fourth one? The birthday girl? For Elizabeth Stride? Those two must be still in the back. As are Kessler and Whistler. As are Clew and Sadik. Please God, we at least got those four.

Nope. Not Whistler. Shit, shit, shit. Here he comes. Alive, limping badly, lost his hat. Smoke was seeping from his wet clothing. He has a phone to his ear. He steps into the street, still trying to speak into it. Must be too noisy inside. Beside him was that odd little man who had lingered with Haskell at the bus stop. The one who’d then gone into the bakery and later crossed over into the restaurant after the Greek coasted past.

Whistler got through to whoever he’s calling. He’s barking orders into the phone. Haskell heard him say the word “bomb.” He said it not once, but at least two more times. He heard him say the words, “Get them down here. My house.” Sounds like he’s calling up the reserves. To his house, though? Not here? He probably wants them to cover his house to make sure there aren’t more bombs planted there.

See that? That should show Harry Whistler’s true nature. He’d walked past the girls with hardly a glance, pausing only to touch Rasha’s shoulder. Not even noticing the man who was shot. Never pausing to offer a helping hand to anyone he’d passed along the way. Some of his houseguests are still in there somewhere and all that the great Harry Whistler cares about are his own property interests.

Up the street, a gray van, tires squealing appeared. Whistler waved it forward. It screeched to a stop. The van had the logo of some plumber on its side. Haskell heard the driver ask, “Where do you want us?” He couldn’t hear much of the rest of the exchange, but Haskell could have sworn that he heard the driver speak the name of Yitzhak Netanya. Shame he wasn’t invited, thought Haskell.

The van sped off. Guess they weren’t needed. Whistler probably sent them to his house as well. Surprised he didn’t go with them. But Whistler is going back in after all. Probably to look for his hat. But first he gave an order to the little man with him while gesturing toward something down the street. The little man seemed reluctant to leave him, but Whistler had said to him, “Go. Check it out.” He seemed to be gesturing toward the Ford Escape that the Greek had left idling, double-parked.

Sensible, thought Haskell. It was certainly suspicious. In a bombing, the first bomb is sometimes a decoy. The next one drives up, takes out any survivors. Also anyone who’d come to their aid. But that was highly unlikely in this case, thought Haskell. Whatever the Greek’s intention had been, he was in no condition to drive.

For now, though, Haskell returned to his coverage. More people milling around outside, others still trying to squeeze through the door that didn’t want to stay open for some reason. It looked a bit crooked. Must be damaged. There’s the younger Iranian running up to it, the bartender calling, “Niki, stop.” She’s grabbed the door, she’s holding it open, freeing the way for those bunched up inside. Now she’s pulling at it, looking up at a hinge that was no longer flush with the frame. She’d trying to rip it away. Not strong enough, but there goes her sister. And there goes the princess, but the bartender grabs her. The two sisters have gripped it below the top hinge and tugging mightily; they don’t have the strength. But now the bartender lends both his big hands and the door is torn free and dragged away.

Haskell got it on camera, but he couldn’t use it. Heroics by runaways are not in the script. He would edit that out at his leisure. For now he zoomed in on the sign above the entrance. It, too, had come loose. It had partly fallen. One end was dangling over the doorway just enough to cause some to duck under it. That thing falling, if it did, would make a great visual. Splice it to the end. A signature shot.

This is no good, thought Haskell. He was missing too much. That man and that woman who come off the bus were getting much better pictures. They had a better angle and were free to improve it. Get out of this shelter. Get closer than this. Even better, go inside and work your way to the back. That’s where the real carnage should have been.

“Charles… No!”

Sorry. Got to see. That’s too many survivors coming from the back room. Soot blackened, dazed, perhaps going into shock, but few of them seem badly injured.

Haskell felt a slow trickle moving down across his forehead and gathering at his right eyebrow. He wiped at it. Blood. It was that sting he’d felt. Must have been from a flying piece of glass. The cut was nothing, a mere breaking of the skin, but head cuts always bleed beyond their worth. Now his face was smeared and that could be good. He’d look more like a victim than they did.