The Aisha Prophecy (6 page)

Perhaps not, thought the mullah. But they, too, must be enjoying it. They’ve been helping Muslim women flee to the west for at least ten years, maybe longer.

The colonel had fed the ball back to Mansur. He said, “Let’s see you hit two in a row.” Mansur tried. It hit the rim, bounced twice and dropped in.

“Luck,” the colonel muttered. “That’s why no applause.” He added, “But no, this doesn’t seem organized. It’s just women at random protecting each other. I say ‘just women,’ but I should include men. Many fathers have sent their daughters away in order to keep them out of trouble.”

“And what of them?” asked Mansur. “I mean, men in general. What has been their reaction to the prophecy?”

“Some scoff. Most are patient. They think, as you thought, that this will soon run its course without lasting harm being done. But some call it heresy and, as my wife fears, they are demanding the deaths of all who spread it.”

The senior mullah smiled wearily. “Including some on the Council. They are always demanding somebody’s death. Mostly, it falls on deaf ears.”

The colonel hit with a fade-away jumper. He answered, “True. But only mostly.”

Mansur asked, “And you? What do you believe?”

“Our faith does not teach that the dead can return. On the day of judgment, yes, but not before.”

“Nice dodge,” said the mullah. “Now please speak your mind.”

The colonel paused for a moment, choosing his words, all the time dribbling the ball. “Once, in America, I dined at the home of a friend who left Iran when the Shah was deposed. He’d settled in Los Angeles, got married, had children. Nice woman, good Muslim, old Persian family. On the wall of her kitchen, I saw a little sign. It read, ‘If Mama Ain’t Happy, Ain’t Nobody Happy.’ There, it was a joke. Here, it isn’t. Not now.”

Mansur gestured for the ball. He said, “Go on.”

“Any society is made up of families. I think this prophecy could well turn ours upside down if we don’t find its source and discredit it.”

“But we know its source. It’s twelfth century Berber. And the Berbers were Sunni; that’s what make this so strange. Why should Shiites believe an obscure Sunni prophecy about a female messiah?”

“Because they have one and we don’t?”

“I’m serious, Aram.”

“Well, then, Shiite or Sunni, she would still be sent by God.”

Mansur took another long shot and missed. He said, “If so, yes. That would blur the distinction. Still, it’s so old. Forgotten even by the Sunnis.”

“Until someone rekindled it,” said the colonel. “Who and why?”

Mansur repeated his assistant’s opinion. Someone with a computer. Time on his or her hands. An avalanche starts with a snowflake. But the colonel was doubtful. He stood shaking his head.

Mansur asked, “You think it’s more? Part of some larger scheme?”

“If it is, I think it’s brilliant. Utterly brilliant. No troops. No invasions. Just sit back and wait. Help our women to decide that they ‘ain’t happy’ either. Give them a leader to rally behind. If that leader is a ghost who can’t be found, so much the better. I’m surprised no one’s thought of this before.”

“And who are these conspirators?” asked the mullah. “The Americans?”

The colonel rocked one hand. “There are those who suspect so. The prophecy says that she will come from the west. All that’s west of Morocco is America.”

“But you’re not so sure?”

“Too subtle for them. This is not shock and awe. This would be someone very clever, very patient.”

“Some other government?” asked Mansur.

“Or some company,” Jalil answered. “Don’t rule out Big Oil. All those companies are governments unto themselves.”

“Their objective being…?”

“Money, of course. In the end, it’s always profit. Money and the power that comes with it. But they can be patient the way vultures are patient. First, lay the groundwork. Create unrest. Create distraction. Someone always takes advantage of distraction.”

Mansur nodded. He said thoughtfully, “Confusion to thine enemies.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Jewish bible. It’s just full of good advice.”

“So now you think it’s Jews?”

Mansur winced. He said, “That’s the last place I’d look. Why? Because once we start blaming Jews, our minds tend to slam shut. Let’s keep them open.”

“Fine, but you’re right about confusion,” said Jalil. “We’re so busy keeping an eye on these women that we don’t have time for much else. Bear in mind that our leaders all have wives and daughters. What authority will they have if they start being smirked at? You know what it’s like? A fifth column.”

The mullah demurred. “Let’s not go overboard. That phrase refers to an enemy within. I really don’t think we’re quite there yet.”

“Your own wife. Is she so docile? Mine isn’t. Not of late. Women nag. They cajole. It has always been so. On the whole, however, they accept male authority. But this is new. You’ve seen their defiance. These smirks, if not stopped, become open contempt and contempt leads to open rebellion. Already, on the internet, some are promising vengeance against men who have treated them badly.”

“Not waiting for Aisha?”

“They feel sure she won’t mind.”

“Have any acted?” asked the mullah.

“A few that we know of. And a few is all it takes. As it is, many men who’ve mistreated their women are learning to sleep with one eye open.”

“Such men should,” said Mansur. “They should reap what they sow. But I hear you. It’s a much wider problem.”

“One that you’re now charged with stopping,” said the colonel.

“Stopping? But how? By breaking more heads? That makes them hope that she’s coming even more.”

“We could try shutting down all those Internet cafes. That is where many first learned of the prophecy. That is where they discuss it and spread it.”

The mullah raised the ball on one finger and spun it. “It’s not just the cafes. Like it or not, the whole world is wired. One can’t shut down orbiting satellites. In any case, the damage has already been done if so many hope that the prophecy is true. The question now is how best to contain it.”

He let the ball drop. He caught it on his instep. He launched toward the backboard. Once again, it dropped through the hoop. More applause from the opposite court.

“You’re beginning to annoy me,” said Jalil

Mansur laughed. He said, “Sorry. Pure chance. First time ever.”

He retrieved the ball and stood dribbling it thoughtfully. He said, “The best way to contain it is to prove that it’s a fraud. This female messiah or mahdi… whatever… didn’t come when the Berber said she would come and she isn’t coming now either. So let’s… What’s wrong? Your hand is rocking again.”

“Nor did Jesus,” said the colonel, “but the Christians still expect him. And it’s been two thousand years, not nine hundred.”

A valid point, thought Mansur, but not quite the same thing. Jesus wasn’t known to have a feminist agenda. On the other hand, his mother seems to keep turning up. Her face appears in stains coming through cement walls and on grilled cheese sandwiches sold on E-Bay. And if his mother, why not Mary Magdalene? If, as some claim, she was married to Jesus, maybe she’ll show up flashing her ring. At the very least, she might have something to say about being called a harlot all these years.

Jesus’ mother, Mary Magdalene and now Islam’s Aisha. Interesting that they’re all women.

Jalil gestured toward his gym bag. “I brought two beers. Still cold. One for you, one for me.”

This phrasing told Mansur that his was non-alcoholic. It said Jalil’s might be as well, but don’t ask. Mansur said, “You go ahead. I’d best wait.”

As colonel Jalil popped his can, Mansur said, “Very well, Aram. Let’s go with your premise. Let’s assume a larger scheme, a conspiracy. Let’s say some western entity resurrected this prophecy and saw it as a way to destabilize our region at no cost to itself should it fail. If so, let’s track them down, flush them out in the open.”

“And make the women with their candles feel foolish,” said the colonel.

“Do the Christians feel foolish? Let’s tread carefully on that one. Unless we want to sleep with one eye open as well. Ridicule is never forgiven.”

“Ah, yes. And if Mama ain’t happy…”

“Get to work. Find the source. It had to start somewhere. Contact all the Islamic intelligence services. They’ll be just as keen to track this as we are.”

“Some even more so,” said Colonel Jalil. “The Saudi Hasheem is already on the case. They blame us, by the way, for letting this spread to them. Some even think it was deliberate.”

Mansur sniffed. “The Hasheem? The crushers of evil? One could not call that bunch an intelligence service. Misfits. Fanatics. Otherwise unemployable.”

“No less dangerous however. They hate everyone.”

“Have any shown up here?”

“At least two. We have them,” said Colonel Jalil. “We’re not treating them gently. If there are more, we’ll soon know. Do I have a free hand in this matter?”

Mansur shook his head. “Only with the Hasheem. Beyond them, again, let’s try not to go crazy. All I want is some detective work for now. While you’re at it, I’ll do a little digging of my own. I think I’ll call my old friend, Sadik.”

“Sadik? Which Sadik? You mean Rajib Sadik?”

“Of Hamas. I take it you know of him.”

“Yes, of course,” said the colonel, “but why should he help? Hamas has been no friend of ours.”

“Not ours,” said the mullah, “but maybe still mine. This prophecy business must have touched him as well. I’d bet that Sadik, who seems to know almost everyone, has already begun looking into it. He’d have started with the Nasreens.”

“He knows them?”

“As I’ve said…”

“He knows everyone. I heard you. May I ask… how is it that you know Sadik?”

“I knew him before I became what I am and before he became what he is.”

“You mean before he became so big in Hamas?”

“I knew him before he was even Sadik.” The mullah paused. “You say we’ve put dozens in prison?”

“Mostly those from that Internet café at the Food Court. We think some of them know a lot more than they’re saying about how this whole business started. We think they know who sent those first prophecy messages.”

“You mean originally? Or someone who simply passed them on.”

“The latter, mostly likely,” said Colonel Jalil. “Not the ultimate source. But perhaps, just perhaps, a link to that source. A name. A location. One more piece of the puzzle.”

“They’re not talking?” asked the mullah.

“They will,” said the colonel.

“But why haven’t they already? They would only have to say, ‘You can’t blame us for this. We can’t help what shows up on our screens. We didn’t believe it; we were just talking about it. No one thought that it would get us in trouble.’”

“They can’t tell us,” said the colonel, “that they don’t believe it when they’ve been telling others that it’s true. Anyway, it’s already much too late in the game. I’ve just finished saying how far this has spread. But what other lead do we have?”

The mullah pondered for a moment. “These are all young women?”

“College age. Some younger.”

“Sadik has a soft spot for women in trouble. Perhaps I can entice him to fly in for a visit. Let him question a few of them. See what he can learn.”

“If you say so,” said the colonel, “but why should they talk to him?”

“People do. People trust him. Including the Nasreens. And they, as you’d imagine, would be crazy to trust any other Muslim male that I can think of.”

“So?” The colonel shrugged. “What’s so special about Sadik?”

“A great many things.”

“I meant to the Nasreens.”

“I suppose because Sadik’s wife is one of them.”

FIVE 

On a Saturday evening, fully half a world away, Charles Haskell rose to add a log to the fire that crackled on the shore of a shimmering lake. The shimmer came from the light of a hundred such fires that burned along its quarter-mile length. A circle of men sat at each of those fires. Up to a dozen at some. Only three or four at others.

Haskell could hear the soft hum of their voices, broken sometimes by laughter, sometimes by song. He stood for a moment absorbing it all, a smile of satisfaction on his face. “We really do run the world,” he mused aloud to the others. “I mean, think of it. Just us. Just the men at all these fires. It still boggles my mind, but it’s a fact.”

There were five at the fire that Haskell was tending. Those in his group were younger than most. All five were in their late forties, early fifties. All were dressed casually, windbreakers and slacks. All sat barefoot. All but one were bareheaded. Only Haskell himself had the toned and rugged look of a man who spent much time outdoors. Two of the men were not members of the club. They had come as guests. They had arrived that afternoon.

“The whole world?” asked Howard Leland, one of the two guests. “I’d have to call that a bit of a stretch.”

“Oh, would you? Look around you. Look at all those fires,” said the chairman of Trans-Global Oil & Gas. “That’s the greatest concentration of power and wealth that has ever, I mean ever, been seen in one place. Especially now, with world markets imploding. No government on earth has more influence.”

“Ours included?” asked Leland, who was senior in that government. A cabinet officer. Secretary of State.

“Ours especially,” said Haskell. “Who put it in office? It serves at our pleasure, for our purposes.”

The third man in their group was a banker. He was British. He could see that Leland had taken offense. He said to Leland, “The first day at this gathering is always a bit heady. But you’ll find that it settles quite nicely after that.” He said to Haskell, “Charles, you really must mind your words. Howard Leland has never been anyone’s puppet. I’m sure that you were not suggesting otherwise.”

“Of course not,” said Haskell. “He’s one of us. Or he will be. My apologies, Howard. Want a beer?”

Leland declined. He said, “Later, perhaps.” He’d begun to regret having come.

“And, okay,” said Haskell. “Maybe not the whole world. But you’ll see before you leave that I’m not so far off. Leave out China for the moment. We’ll get to them later. The Mideast and its oil is a work in progress, but well underway. And leave out all the countries that have nothing we want. I should have said we run the world that matters.”

Leland made himself smile. “That clears it up. Thank you.”

“Yes, lighten up, Charles,” said the fourth man at their fire. He said to Leland, “We’re not really so full of ourselves. Give it time and I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. You’ll see former presidents letting their hair down, behaving as they did in their frat house days. Senators, statesmen, all doing the same. I’d imagine you already know many of them. Do you?”

The man who asked that question was the media mogul. He owned more than a hundred newspapers worldwide and some seventy-five TV stations. Leland answered dryly, “I’d imagine.”

“Of course you do,” said the mogul. “Those in government, surely. But one can never have too many friends in high places. We’ll see if we can’t broaden your reach.”

The fifth man at their fire was a Saudi. A prince. Unlike the others who were tall, clean-shaven and lean, he was squat and he was fleshy with a beard in need of trimming. He formed a lump where he sat. The image was enhanced by the bath towel he’d brought which he wore draped over his head and his shoulders. He was staring at the fire. He sat rocking back and forth and he’d not said a word. He had acknowledged Leland’s presence with a nod.

Haskell had taken Leland aside. He said, “Don’t mind him. He’s in a bit of a funk. Some problem involving his daughter back home. He won’t discuss it. Be thankful.”

“I assume he’s in oil?”

“What Saudi prince isn’t?”

“How high up, though? A minister?”

“Oh, something much better.”

“Higher?”

“Way lower. But that’s what makes him useful. He hates all the princes who have more than he has. And he knows where a lot of them keep it.”

The banker overheard. He said, “Charles, that can wait. For now, let’s enjoy this lovely evening.”

The proper name of the place was The Bohemian Grove. More commonly, and by custom, it was simply called, ‘The Camp.” In terms of ambience, however, and in terms of creature comforts, it was no more a camp than Camp David. But the surroundings were unspoiled. Dense forests. Pristine lakes. California’s Russian River ran through it. The Grove covered almost three thousand acres some forty miles north of Sacramento.

Its expanse was well patrolled; its gates aggressively guarded. The odd paparazzo had managed to slip in, but was quickly discovered and rudely ejected after watching his equipment being smashed. Members were forbidden to discuss what took place here. No interviews given, no questions answered, not even concerning the most ordinary activities. Guests of members were required to pledge silence as well.

All contact with the outside world was limited during one’s stay at the Grove. Members and guests were allowed to receive mail, but no phone calls, barring genuine emergencies. Cell phones were forbidden, surrendered upon entering. Certainly no cameras or recording devices. No TV in the guest rooms. Not even radios. These were seen as frivolous distractions. Books could not be brought in, but books were available. These, however, were limited to the business of the club, its history and its traditions. Laptop computers were allowed for some reason, but only if their internet access was disabled. One assumes that if aliens were to invade, an announcement would be posted on the bulletin board. Otherwise, it might go unnoticed.

No bodyguards either, no personal security, or at least not within the camp proper. Guards who normally traveled with members and guests were housed in special quarters outside the main gate. Among them were the two who had accompanied Leland, armed officers of the Diplomatic Security Service. Reduced to sitting and waiting until he emerged and having his car at the ready.

The occasion was the annual two-week retreat of the members of the Bohemian Club. It was held every year in late July starting on the third Sunday of the month. This year, more than twenty-two hundred had gathered. The members converged from all over the nation and from some fifteen other countries. Members of at least five years’ standing were permitted to bring one guest each. Guests could mix freely in social activities, but could not attend certain private sessions. Few guests felt deprived by this limitation. It was thought an honor just to be on grounds in the company of the great and the powerful.

Howard Leland had considerably more stature than many. He’d been a career diplomat who’d risen through the ranks in embassies throughout Western Europe. He’d been named as Acting Secretary of State when the woman who’d held that office had a stroke that left her with minimal brain function. He would probably never be confirmed in full. Careerists seldom were. They were rarely party loyalists. That was why he’d been more than a little surprised to be asked to attend as Haskell’s guest. He was a lame duck. His influence was limited. How did Haskell hope to profit by inviting him?

Haskell was indeed a major player in oil. His control of Trans-Global was absolute. Infamous even by the standards of that industry, Leland thought him to be a man without conscience and had already said as much to his face. Far from being offended, Haskell seemed pleased to hear that he was known to stand out from the pack.

Leland, being curious as to Charles Haskell’s motives, and more so about the Bohemians at large, accepted, although not without misgivings. He’d cleared his schedule, but only through Wednesday, not for the full two-week session.

Haskell had told him that the media mogul would be one of their “bunk-mates” as he’d put it. “Can’t hurt,” he’d said, “to have this guy as a friend. You sure as hell don’t want to be on his shit list.” The British banker would also be a part of their circle. His bank had branches throughout the Mideast and it had funded Trans-Global’s rise to prominence. “The guy is a walking ATM,” said Haskell. “Except, trust me, he spits out more than twenties.”

The Saudi prince was there as the guest of the banker. “He’s a dimwit,” said Haskell, “but that’s okay; he’s our dimwit. Or he will be by the time this session’s over.”

“And me?”

“And you, what?”

“Am I to be… yours?”

“Howard, we’re Bohemians. One for all. All for one. Relax. There’s no way for you to lose by having come here.”

The media mogul said, “I’ll take one of those beers. The letting down of hair begins now.” He opened their cooler and passed cans of Heineken to Leland, to the banker and to Haskell. Leland saw that none had been offered to the Saudi. He thought he understood why. An observant Muslim. But not even an iced tea or a cola?

Haskell read Leland’s mind; he said, “We’re not being rude. We just don’t indulge his pretence of abstinence. The Prince’s drink of choice is bourbon, straight up. He’ll catch up in private, never fear.”

The Saudi had to have heard this, but he barely reacted. He let out a sigh and kept rocking.

The mogul said to the banker, “Here we are, away at camp, and we’re sitting round a fire. Shouldn’t someone be telling ghost stories?”

“No ghosts here,” said the banker. “Can’t get in unless invited. But we could summon Satan if you like.”

The mogul smiled. He said to Leland, “I assume you’ve heard the rumors. Devil-worship and such. I never cease to be amazed at what people think goes on here. The damnedest thing is that some of these stories have appeared in my own publications.”

“Then they must be true,” said the banker with a nod. “We all know how unbiased your editors are.”

“I’d have a talk with a few of them were it not for the rules. I’m forbidden to correct them. I can’t tell them a thing.”

The banker said, “More’s the pity. I think people should know. Not all of it, of course. Not all that we do. But it might be a comfort to them to know that their world is in capable hands.”

Leland thought to himself, Here we go again.

Haskell said, “What he means, although he’s too polite to say it, is that unlike the mass of our elected civil servants, we don’t have our heads up our asses.”

“I liked the polite version better,” said Leland.

“Oh, he didn’t mean you,” the British banker said quickly. “Nor were you elected. You were appointed on merit. You are nonetheless part of a political system that limits, even thwarts, your effectiveness. But perhaps we might help you to focus your energies where they will do the most good.”

“For whom, sir?”

“For the world, sir. And indeed for ourselves. Truth be told, we do run it. Or we run a great deal of it. We run it better and more profitably than it’s ever been run by anyone since…”

“The robber barons?” asked Leland.

“I was going to say the Romans. They brought law. They brought order. But you say ‘robber barons’ as if it were a pejorative. I think you know your own history better than that. The robber barons, as you call them, were the men who built your country. It certainly wasn’t the government. It was they who built the railroads and the steel mills and all else. They amassed great wealth, but they used it well. They endowed universities, hospitals, libraries. All considered, they gave better than they got.”

The media mogul added, “As do most of us, Howard. And none of us set out to have this sort of power. Once achieved, however, it’s a burden we’ve accepted. We regard it as a trust. A sacred trust.”

“Precisely,” said the Saudi, nodding under his towel. This was the first word he had spoken. He added “It is sacred because God has willed it.”

Charles Haskell rolled his eyes. He told the Saudi, “Not here.”

The Saudi looked at him, blinking. He did not understand.

Haskell said to the Saudi, “That will of God business. Do not say that here. Someone might think you actually mean it.”

“But, I do,” said the Saudi. “All that happens is God’s will.”

“And that’s a handy excuse for not making things happen. That’s what we’re here for. Try to keep that in mind. The only will that matters in this place is our own. Save that crap for the rag-heads back home.”

The Saudi’s eyes turned cold for the briefest of instants, but he forced them to brighten. He grinned. He said to Howard Leland who was visibly ill at ease, “You see that I am smiling? These men are my friends. What is friendship without a little pulling of the leg?”

Haskell said to Howard Leland, “We, of course, applaud his piety. He’s been known, however, to leave it behind when his aircraft departs Saudi soil.”

“He leaves his taste in women along with it,” said the banker. He nudged the Saudi with his elbow. “Scandinavians, correct?”

“I am not undemocratic. English girls are good too.”

“As long as they’re not much older than twelve,” said Haskell while winking at the media mogul.

“No, I think you mean his bourbon,” said the media mogul. “It’s his bourbon that has to be older than twelve. A lowly Dutch beer is beneath him.”