The Aisha Prophecy (39 page)

“With this,” Kessler asked him, “you’d go after Elizabeth? You would take on Elizabeth Stride?”

The question was rhetorical. The man was unconscious. Perhaps he thought that a slut and a lesbian whore would fall all to pieces at the sight of this toy. No more time for this, however. Kessler left him.

“That’s it?” Clew asked later, “You just left him?”

“I severed his Achilles. He’d be going nowhere else. I left his knife stuck in the ceiling.”

The young cook had succumbed before the ambulance got there. Sadik had stayed with her to the end. He’d given her morphine. Perhaps enough. Perhaps more. No one seemed willing to ask.

The waiter lived a few hours longer. The EMT medics worked to stabilized him before lifting him onto a stretcher. They found him conscious, in good spirits and in little or no pain. He told them, “I’m all right. Don’t bother about me.” He was talking to them, but he was looking at Aisha. She’d been holding his hand all the while.

But she had to let go when they carried him out. Elizabeth would not let her follow. In the ambulance, they learned later, he’d repeated his assurance that he was not badly hurt. He said he’d thought he was, but he wasn’t anymore after Aisha knelt with him and prayed with him. He’d told them that she was an angel. He’d made it to the intensive care unit where he died of massive trauma to his skull and his spine. And yet he’d never suffered. Not while he was with Aisha. Her name was on his lips when he died. That, at least, was the story.

Another miracle? Or was it a trick of his brain, anesthetized by soothing and comforting words, to say nothing of the flood of endorphins released when the body goes into deep shock. This was Elizabeth’s preferred explanation. “That’s all we need, damn it,” she said with disgust, “is anyone thinking she’s a healer.”

Elizabeth was actually mad at herself for the way she’d left the restaurant with Aisha. It turned out to be the frosting on the cake.

As she and Aisha walked out the front door, there must have been twenty flashing cameras. There were also the strobing blue lights of the police cars, the red lights of fire trucks, the amber lights of the EMT vehicles and of ambulances still lining up. There was no room as yet for the TV mobile units, but these were waiting on the next side street. Their reporters, however, had come forward on foot and were lining up witnesses to be interviewed.

Those twenty or so flashing cameras outside recorded every person, not already out, as they appeared in the doorway on foot or on a stretcher. They did, however, miss Rajib Sadik who certainly had no wish to have his face on news broadcasts. They ignored him, assuming he was just another doctor who’d arrived well after the event.

But the damnedest shot they got was of Elizabeth and Aisha. There was Aisha wrapped in a white table cloth that covered her from head to mid calf. Aisha, who’d worn hijab in the past, had arranged the tablecloth in much the same way. Not on purpose. Force of habit. Old habit. And there was Elizabeth, escorting her, protecting her, her mascara having run in such a way that there seemed a great fierceness about her. Add to that her hair, not burning, but burned, and still steaming from the residual water that still dripped from all over the ceiling. Elizabeth had grabbed a tablecloth of her own. For warmth. Not for modesty. She was feeling a chill. The air cooling system still functioned.

That shot would appear the next morning, Thursday, on page three of the Alexandria Gazette. The paper hadn’t been able to get their names, but its reporter had learned from whatever source that they’d stayed to care for the dying. The accompanying caption said as much and it called them Angels Of Mercy. The shot wasn’t quite a twin of that artist’s rendering that appeared in the Bahrain Tribune. No camel, of course. And no flaming sword. But there was Aisha face with those same big eyes and with that same dimple on her cheek.

And looking radiant. Fairly glistening in the lights. Miraculously untouched by all the soot and the grime that had covered every single other person. How, one might ask, could this have been possible? She was, after all, in there almost the longest. The answer, of course, was the clean tablecloth, but that might not be enough for some people.

Still, there was cause to count a blessing or two. At least it hadn’t made the front page. It was one of many that ran on a spread that covered the fourth and fifth pages. Most were quite small, maybe three inches high, and all part of a larger montage. It showed perhaps a dozen survivors in varying degrees of distress, several taking oxygen, others huddled under blankets. There was also a close-up of the burned-out Subaru and a number of interior shots showing the blast and water damage. The front page had been reserved for a wide-angle photo showing the exterior with its dangling sign and the gaping holes where its windows had been.

The Darvi sisters and Rasha were not shown at all. They’d been ushered by Harry into the stretch limo and were already long gone. The Mercedes, badly scarred, but entirely drivable, had moved several car lengths up the street where it waited beyond the art gallery. This was done at the direction of the fire department who needed it out of their way. The driver was one of the twins. There, it waited for Elizabeth and Aisha. Kessler had run interference for them, pushing several reporters aside. That didn’t stop more shots from being taken as they climbed into the Mercedes. But none of these had appeared in the spread or on any of the late TV broadcasts. Of all the coverage, there was only that one single photo of the two “angels” emerging. And since that was only one among many, perhaps Aisha would be lost in the crowd.

Roger Clew, like Sadik, had escaped being photographed as did Harry Whistler himself. They’d already left the scene in the limo, Charles Haskell still in the trunk. The presence of State’s Director of Intelligence would have attracted the notice of the media world-wide. Bad enough that the bombing itself had already. It was among the leads on several internet news sites within ninety minutes of the blast. There would be no hope of containing this.

And yet speculation was curiously muted as to the cause of the explosion. Few even used the word “bomb.” Terrorism was mentioned, but generally dismissed. No one could think of any possible motive for targeting this restaurant in particular. None realized that any at the party were Muslims, let alone being runaways brought out by the Nasreens. Haskell’s scheme notwithstanding… and Aisha’s photo notwithstanding… no one drew a connection between this attack and either the prophecy or the Saudi ten billion. This was true of the media. Largely true of the police. Their interest was local. Their interest was personal.

One of them had been helping tend bar.

FORTY 

The policewoman, Karen, full name Karen Hoffman, had witnessed a good deal both inside and out. Her first instinct had been to get people to safety. She did so while calling 911. Her biggest concern had been for the girls. She shouted to Harry asking if they’re okay. He’d shouted back through the din. “We all seem to be, yes. Martin’s checking on the staff. We’ll need ambulances.”

“They’re coming,” she told him. “I can hear them.”

Karen had been in and out several times, giving aid wherever she saw the need. She was in when the struggles with Haskell occurred. They’d only lasted for a minute or two. She was out when Harry appeared with the twin, first making at least one call of his own. She seen him send the twin for the Ford Escape that had been left idling down the street. She knew it wasn’t Harry’s. It belonged to the Greek. She saw the twin drive it to the next street up where there was a building under construction, but with no workers present at that hour. She saw the twin – not that she knew he was a twin - step out of the car, having left it in gear, and walk back as the Ford Escape kept going, finally coming to rest between a pile of sand and a heavy construction site dumpster.

That was all the attention she’d had time to give it until perhaps a good hour later when the body of the Greek was discovered.

A fireman had found him in the men’s’ toilet stall. He promptly called in the nearest police in the person of Karen and her sergeant, Dave Ragland. They’d been out taking statements from witnesses while avoiding saying much to the press. The sergeant was in uniform. Karen was not. She still wore the grimy white shirt and stained slacks that she’d put on to help with the party. But she wore her badge on her belt. The Greek had bled out from a wound to his face and from one deep cut through his Achilles. They saw the throwing knife stuck in the ceiling. They saw fresh blood on the side that had been sharpened. They saw the bandages on the dead Greek’s right forearm, some of which conformed to the shape of the knife. They found a Greek passport in his pocket. It gave his name as Zenobias Polykarpos. Within it they found a plastic key card with the name of a nearby motel. And they found a snapshot of a somber little girl who was dressed in Muslim attire.

The sergeant showed it to Karen. “Who’s that look like?” he asked.

“Unless she has a sister, that’s Rasha.”

Karen’s next stop, the sergeant at her side, was at the Greek’s Ford Escape. Its right side had been deeply raked by the dumpster. Its engine had quit; it had probably stalled while struggling against the big sand pile. They started their search with the glove box. In it, they found the car’s registration and its proof of insurance. Both were in the name of one Bernice Barrow, of Hilton Head, South Carolina. The registration and the plate did not match.

They lifted the lid that concealed the spare tire. They could see that it wasn’t seated properly. Sergeant Ragland removed the tire. He let out a breath, He said, “Son of a bitch.” He was looking at the radio, taser and cuffs that had been taken from Eddie Fitch’s body. He saw the extra clip from Eddie’s Glock. Underneath, he found a plastic grocery store bag. In it was a tangled mass of junk jewelry and several of Bernice Barrow’s credit cards.

They called for other officers to secure the scene and take photographs of all that they’d found. Their next stop was at his motel room.

In his closet they found an assortment of clothing, some of it still bearing price tags from Wal-Mart. On the closet shelf, underneath the extra blanket, they found a laptop computer. With it they discovered four cheap-looking cell phones, each of them pre-programmed to the same foreign number. These were throwaways, thought Ragland. Use once and discard. These hadn’t been used, but there might have been others.

Hidden elsewhere, taped to the back of a drawer, they found more than four thousand dollars in cash and another passport, this one Saudi. The name on this one was Mulazim Jabir. He went to the end table next to the bed and found the room’s telephone book. In the front he found the country code for Saudi Arabia. The code was 966, the same as those on the cell phones.

Karen said, “This is going to be a long night. I’d like to use this guy’s shower.”

“Do it,” said Ragland. “Nice new clothes in his closet. You two are about the same size.”

“A quick rinse,” she told him. “Two minutes.”

Within that time he’d read the email exchanges between Niki Darvi, the younger Iranian, and the owner of the car, Bernice Barrow. Her more recent messages struck him as odd. She’d used upper case letters for emphasis in others, but here they made no sense; they were on the wrong words. He told Karen what he found while she was toweling.

She said, “So this guy sent them after he stole it. Do we think that he would have left this woman alive?”

“No, we don’t. I’d better call the Hilton Head cops. And then let’s go talk to Harry Whistler.”

Roger Clew had used the ride home in the limo to put in a call to Howard Leland. He wanted Leland to hear about all this from him before Leland saw it on the news. He reached for his cell phone, realized he had two. He’d almost forgotten that he had Haskell’s. Elizabeth had taken it from him. He put it aside and used his own to call Leland. He caught him at his home in the Maryland suburbs, likely with a very stiff drink in his hand. He briefed Leland on the bombing attempt.

He told Leland that, yes, they thought Haskell was behind it. He said, no, they’re all well, just some odd cuts and bruises. He told Leland that yes, Kessler did have the disk, but he truly hadn’t known it before earlier that day. He said that it was safe, in good hands. He did not tell Leland that they had Haskell, that Haskell was locked in the trunk as they spoke, having been crippled by Stride. For one thing, the three girls did not know that either and they could hear every word Clew was saying. Happily, however, they couldn’t hear Haskell except for an occasional dull thump. State limos were built to be soundproof.

“Sit tight, Mr. Leland. I’ll be back in the morning. I’ll brief you more fully when I see you.”

Upon disconnecting, he picked up Haskell’s phone. He went into the menu. He found Haskell’s list of contacts. He saw the initials HB and RL who he presumed to be Bentley and Leeds. He’d get Haskell’s full call record later. He noticed a read-out on its camera feature indicating that many photographs had been taken. He pressed a button to show them.

He scanned though some fifty that Haskell had taken in the room where the prince had been murdered. There were several of the prince as Haskell had left him. Clew was neither shocked nor surprised. It was the scene as Leland had described it. But there were close-ups of Leland’s personal effects and the contents of his briefcase as well. Meant to serve as proof of Leland’s involvement, but for what purpose? Extortion? Clew didn’t think so. Haskell had to have realized that Howard Leland would sooner resign than submit to it. But that assumes that a man like Haskell would understand a man like Howard Leland. And that he’d never get the disk in that way.

No, these had the look of a slide presentation that Haskell would make to the Saudis. Followed, no doubt, by a videotape showing the destruction of all those responsible at the hand of Charles Haskell himself. All those named by the prince in his suicide note. And, for good measure, the source of the prophecy. The false Aisha and her lying handmaidens, the prince’s “corrupted” daughter among them. It would have made him quite a hero to some.

The video tape? It’s in the trunk with him. It’s in the dented camera with which Haskell had attacked him and with which he’d tried to fend off Elizabeth. It’s not going anywhere. It would keep. Clew closed Haskell’s phone. He dropped it into his briefcase.

Harry had been watching him. “Something you plan to share?”

Clew let Harry see his eyes flick toward the three girls. “Later,” Clew told him. “Not now.”

The limo reached Harry’s street. It wasn’t the first. Clew saw that two cars sat flanking the gate on the strip of grass bordering the sidewalk. He saw another pulling up at the near end of the wall, announcing its presence with a flash of its brights. At the far end, he saw a gray van. All headlights were on. All engines running.

“They’re ours,” said Harry to the others in general. “I made a call from the restaurant.” He flicked a finger toward the van. “Except for those. They’re Mossad.”

The gates swung open. The limo went through it. Clew saw two men standing on the front lawn, both with automatic weapons in their hands. Clew asked, “On the lawn? Shouldn’t they be concealed?”

“A show of force, Roger, needs to be shown. They’re there to discourage, not engage.”

He said to the driver, “Please pull up in front.” He said to the girls, “Go take nice long showers. When you’re done, go to bed, get up early and pack. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be landing in Geneva. You won’t be coming back to this house.”

Niki, who’d been silent throughout the ride home, said, “I’m not going with you.”

Shahla said, “Niki, we’ll talk later.”

“No,” said Niki, “I know what I’m saying. You all forgave me, but that was before. Did those people die in the back?”

“Yes,” Sadik told her, “At least two so far. But it wasn’t your doing, believe me.”

“And you helped,” said Shahla. “I was standing doing nothing. It was you who tried to take down that door.”

Harry said, “Why don’t we do this inside.”

“No,” said Niki firmly. “Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll call the Nasreens. I have their California number. I’ll tell them what I’ve done, how I’ve betrayed them and how I’ve almost killed all of you. Let them tell the world that there is no Aisha, there are no handmaidens; I’ve made it all up. After that, I’ll go anywhere they send me.”

“That,” said Sadik, “is what you must not do. You want to make amends? There’s a much better way. Take your shower. We’ll talk when you’re done.”

The stretch limo had barely fit into the garage. It had to go in at an angle. There was room now that Stride’s car no longer existed. But still room for Harry’s scarred Mercedes. That car, bearing Aisha and Kessler and Stride, was just coming in through the gate. Clew directed it to the third garage door, formerly the Subaru’s space.

Clew had intended to retrieve Haskell’s camera, but he couldn’t while Aisha was present. His jaw dropped when he saw how Aisha was dressed. And Elizabeth, too. Full length white abayas. He asked, “What’s with… these?”

“What’s with what?” asked Elizabeth.

It was only then, it seemed, that she realized how they looked. She fingered the fabric. “These are tablecloths, Roger. Aisha’s burned and she needed to be covered.”

“Burned badly?” he asked.

“No, but she’ll blister. Let’s get her inside so I can treat it.”

Kessler cocked his head in the direction of the limo. He asked Clew. “Still in there?”

Clew nodded. He said “Still.”

Kessler said, “At least he’s quiet. Leave him. Let’s go.”

Clew said, “I’ll be right behind you.”

Sergeant Ragland had called from the gate asking Harry to open it up. He said that he had a few questions. He pulled up to the front in his Belle Haven squad car. Officer Karen Hoffman was with him. She looked as if she’d just dressed for golf. Harry, still limping, met them both at the door and directed them into the library. The sergeant carried a laptop computer.

Karen looked him over. “Are you sure you’re Harry Whistler? You look like you’ve been living in a dumpster.”

“Very funny. I’m waiting. We’re low on hot water.”

“All the girls are okay?”

“They’re our problem with the water.”

The sergeant said, “We saw the posse outside. Do you expect to be hit again tonight?”

“A few friends have dropped by. Just in case.”

“I’ll be straight with you, Harry. I’ll tell you what we’ve got. We expect that you’ll do the same for us.”

“If I can”

“We might know who planted that bomb,” said the Sergeant. He showed the Greek passport. “Do you know this man?”

Harry studied the face. He read the name. “Sam said that someone he called Zeke the Greek had claimed to be an old friend of mine. But no, I’ve never seen this one.”

“Well, he isn’t Greek, he’s Saudi.” Ragland showed the other passport. “His name isn’t Zeke, it’s Mulazim Jabir. We found cells in his room set to call a Saudi number. Did you see him at Mangiamo this evening?”

“Never laid eyes until now.”

“Then why would you order his car to be moved?”

“What car was that? You mean the one double parked with its engine running? I just didn’t like the look of it, Dave.”

“Of him either, I guess. Did one of your people leave the Saudi on a toilet after bashing him and cutting his strings? I know it wasn’t Sam. He’d have snapped him in two.”

The sergeant didn’t wait for an answer. He handed Harry the snapshot that the Saudi had on him. “This is Rasha, is it not? Was this Saudi after Rasha? Did Eddie Fitch spot him watching your girls play tennis? Were they there that night? Is that what got Eddie killed? Did that piece-of-shit kill Eddie with the knife we found stuck in the ceiling?”

Harry raised a hand. He said, “Dave, slow down.” He was looking at the photo of Rasha in hijab. “Let me get Elizabeth and Martin in here. Hold your noses, however. They haven’t bathed either. Then I’ll ask you to take it from the top.”